


Objectively Speaking

by rachhell



Series: South Park Kink Meme [2]
Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Craig doesn't care, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Past creek, Self Confidence Issues, South Park Kink Meme, Stan has a dad bod, body image issues, dad bod, divorced craig, hairy bear stan, smatterings of angst, yes i broke up creek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 03:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14299416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachhell/pseuds/rachhell
Summary: Approaching forty, Stan doesn't feel comfortable in his own skin, nor with the effects aging has had on his body. Craig disagrees, and shows him just how hot a dad bod can be.





	Objectively Speaking

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: _As Stan gets older, he develops a dad bod. He is horribly embarrassed by this, and starts dodging his SO and sex as a whole. But his SO is having none of that BS and makes Stan damn sure that they love him and the dad bod he has._
> 
> I decided to go with Staig on this because I will go down with this ship, and what was supposed to be a short PWP turned into a piece that has a backstory with which I have fallen in love and really enjoyed writing. The story is more important than the sex in this, so I hope whoever submitted this prompt likes it, even if it wasn't quite what you were looking for.

Getting a full-length mirror for their bedroom, even if it was an elaborate, antique beauty of a piece that Craig just _had_ to buy, was the awful idea to end all awful ideas. Up until the day that behemoth was hauled up their stairs by a couple of surly-looking delivery men and placed right across from their bed, Stan was perfectly content with seeing himself from the waist up in their bathroom mirror after showering, body blurred by a layer of steam upon the glass. But, he tended to refrain from spending any significant amount of time doing even that, because he knew what he looked like, and he hated it.

This mirror, however, made it unavoidable. It was like once he started looking, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t help but pick apart all the imperfections that he usually ignored, all of the lumps and bumps and hairs in weird places, hairs that were too long and too dense. His boxer briefs were a little too tight around his thighs, his love handles sticking over the waistband in what he thought was a doughy, fuzzy muffin top, and these were a large. Did he _really_ have to buy an extra large next time? He’d _never_ been an extra large, but, well here he was.

 _Fuck._ Fuck an extra large.

“Ugh,” he grunted, softly, turning to the side and sucking in his stomach. He wasn’t _fat,_ or anything, but he couldn’t make out the line of his ribcage or the contours of the abdominal muscles that he was positive were still well-formed underneath his beer gut and would come back if he tried.

Problem was, he’d stopped trying for about ten years.

His gaze shifted to his chest. Flabby. It was flabby, and disappointing, and he could’ve sworn he was getting man-boobs. _Fuck_ man-boobs. He was already starting to look like an even less in-shape (although, if one were to ask him, still more attractive) version of his father; he didn’t need _these_ on top of everything else. What was next, getting drunk in his underwear in front of the television? _Shit,_ he already did that. Something worse, maybe? Was his destiny to rope the town into ridiculous scheme after ridiculous scheme, or to go through a midlife crisis and develop a pop-star alter ego?

No, it wasn’t. Fuck that.

And, fuck all of the hair on his body. It seemed to grow back almost right away every time he decided to shave or wax, so he’d stopped bothering. Craig never complained, but he just _had_ to secretly hate it, fucking _had to,_ and was probably just didn’t want to stir up conflict by saying anything to make Stan feel bad about himself, or _something._ Craig hated conflict, said that he’d had more than enough of it in his previous relationship. Stan knew he was easy, low-maintenance. He was a relaxing partner for Craig to be with, and tried his hardest to be as independent and chill as he could. Stan felt the same way about Craig - even if he could be a snobby, uptight asshole sometimes - and _he_ didn’t want to stir anything up, either.

It was best to just leave it be, wasn’t it?

He still couldn’t help but sighing as he turned around, angling his body so that he could get a good glimpse at his ass, and… well. At least _that_ was still okay, if a little flat.

“Why are you staring at yourself,” Craig droned in his stupid-Craig-voice - which became deeper, but no less monotonous, lisping, or nasal over the years - and momentarily glanced at Stan over the top of his reading glasses. With a huff, he turned the page of his book, and adjusted his posture against the mountain of pillows he used to prop himself up on their bed. “You vain bastard.” Of course Craig was joking, a tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth, but he just didn’t get it, and surely didn’t realize just how far that comment missed the mark.

“I look like my fucking _dad,”_ Stan said, before he could stop himself.

Craig chuckled. “What? You look sexy, shut up.”

“Ugh.” He made eye contact with Craig in the mirror, who smiled at him before giving his attention back to his book. Stan poked his stomach.  “I do _not._ Should we be working out?”

“I don’t wanna be that gym couple,” said Craig, eyes glued to the pages of whatever boring non-fiction he was reading, “You look great.”

“You’re not even looking at me!”

“I look at you every day, Stan, I know what you look like. It’s great.”

“I look like my _dad_ .” Stan clicked his tongue, as if he was telling his reflection that he was _very_ disappointed in you, Stanley, and that was a thought he didn’t want to have at all. It was one thing to _look_ like his father, but another one altogether to _think_ like him - even though, he supposed, his mother was more likely to say something like that. “That is so not great. It’s gross. I’m gross.”

“You are sexy, and not gross, and it _is_ great.”

Great? It was _great?_ Craig actually _liked_ that he was starting to look like South Park’s village idiot, Randy Marsh? Stan sure as hell hoped not.

“Implying you think my dad is sexy? That’s fucked up.” Stan made a face. His nose scrunched up, and he felt at least a little bit of relief that Craig always told him _that_ was cute. Unless it was something else that reminded him of Randy. Sick. _What the hell, Craig?_ he thought

“Implying I think _you’re_ sexy,” said Craig, smiling a little, “I mean. Your dad sorta was, when we were younger.”

“Aw, _awh,_ man, really?” He stared at Craig via mirror again, hoping that when he moved his glasses onto his forehead, it’d be to catch Stan’s eye so that he could communicate for Craig to cut it the hell out. All he did was scratch the tiny, red indents on either side of his nose. Stan scoffed. “Sick, dude. My dad?”

With a tiny shrug, Craig pushed his glasses back down. “Not now, obviously, he’s all old and shit. But back then, he was kinda hot.”

“I will literally puke on you, don’t test me.” Stan walked the few paces from the mirror to the foot of their bed, tossing a throw blanket over his stomach after he sat.

“Whatever.” Craig stared at his book. By the way his eyes narrowed and how his forehead crumpled, it was obvious he wasn’t really reading it, and his mind was elsewhere. He cleared his throat, removing a bookmark from the back of the novel and creasing it into his spot. The book remained upon his lap, and he tossed a sidelong, lingering glance at Stan. “Just saying, there are worse people you could look like. Remember when we were working on that project in high school, what was that for, physics or something? Your dad-"

“Don’t even say it, I don’t wanna know.”

“Yeah, physics. Anyway, when I’d come over and he’d be sitting on the couch in his underwear, it wasn’t-“

“Oh my god. Nope. No way. Quit while you’re ahead, I do _not_ want to hear any more. Ever.”

“Wasn’t really the worst thing to walk in on,” finished Craig, ignoring Stan’s protestations.

“I hate you so much,” Stan groaned.

“You do not,” Craig said, “You love me.”

“Well, yeah.” Stan smiled at Craig, shyly; even after being in a relationship as long as they had, he still felt his heart thump whenever Craig brought up the notion of love. He rested his palm upon the lump under the blankets that was Craig’s calf, and gave it a squeeze. Craig’s legs were bony, always had been. “My dad, though? Really?”

“Objectively speaking, he’s handsome, so you shouldn’t be worried about looking like him. Logically, since he was a good-looking guy, and, for an old dude in a wheelchair, he’s not even hideous or whatever now, you have nothing to be concerned about. That’s all I’m saying.” Craig peered at Stan over his glasses, looking at him like what he’d just said was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Christ, Craig. I am so done talking about my dad’s, ugh, his _handsomeness_ with you. Gross. So gross.”

“Just be glad I don’t look anything like my dad,” Craig said, with a tiny grin, “You know? Aside from the height and all.”

“Your dad’s, uh, he’s not that-“

“Yep. He is that bad. I’m just happy I still have hair on my head, even if it’s fucking grey already.” Salt-and-pepper grey hairs were indeed scattered around Craig’s temples like snowflakes on a blacktop. Stan had noticed Craig a time or two when they were getting ready for work, or after they’d showered together before bed, fluffing his hands through his hair while regarding his reflection with resigned disdain, but his hair didn’t look bad - quite the contrary. The smatterings of grey perfectly complemented Craig’s sharp, stern features and reading glasses, making him look like some sort of sexy professor type. Sometimes, Stan wished Craig wore those glasses all of the time.

Besides, Craig had already been acting like someone’s grumpy grandfather since they were nine. It was fitting for him to go grey at thirty-six.

“Oh, barely. I like it,” said Stan.

Craig snorted a little puff of air out of his nose, setting his book upon his bedside table, which was neatly organized with a place for everything, quite unlike Stan’s on the other side of the bed. His glasses ended up neatly folded on top of it. “Hey, Stan, ah… C’mere, get under the covers with me.”

Stan shimmied his way up the bed, attempting to keep his body covered with some ninja-maneuver of tossing the throw off of him as soon as he was cozied up to Craig underneath the comforter, but it slipped off of him halfway there, and ended up in a pile upon the floor, causing him to grimace when his belly was exposed to the air, and, consequently, to Craig. He was being stupid, real stupid - it wasn’t like Craig didn’t see him shirtless, or naked, every single day _anyway_ , but, right then, he was just feeling so self-conscious, especially compared to his boyfriend. Craig was really goddamn beautiful, even if he was pretty scrawny for his height, and his chest caved in a little at the center, and sometimes his bony elbows poked Stan in the side while they were cuddling.

Which they were, then, Craig’s arm flung around Stan’s shoulder. It was almost too warm under the covers - for how skinny Craig was, and although he was wearing nothing but his boxers, the guy was like a human space heater. Still, it felt nice, comforting as it always did, to be close to him. A bit of Stan’s unease about himself abated the moment their sides pressed against each other, and Craig snaked his foot onto the other side of Stan’s, entwining their legs.

Stan heaved a deep, gratified sigh when Craig nuzzled his cheek against Stan’s hair. He noticed, however, a sort of formal stiffness to Craig’s posture, to the grip of his arm around his neck. Stan kissed him, aiming for the cheek, but ending up placing a peck somewhere along Craig’s stubbly chin, due to their angle. Craig smiled, but his jaw clenched. “What’s up? You okay?” asked Stan.

“Is this why we haven’t been. You know…” Craig swallowed, and stared ahead, at seemingly nothing, for a long moment. “Why we haven’t been having sex,” he finally grumbled, “Because you don’t like how you look, or some bullshit.”

It was Stan’s turn for his back to stiffen. That was something else that he’d been trying not to acknowledge for quite some time, that their love life, which was at one time passionate and fueled by the remnant flames of their childhood rivalries, had slowly ground to a halt. Things had went from wonderful to hardly anything at all, although it wasn’t for Craig’s lack of effort. And, _that_ had even started to wane in the last few weeks, Craig rolling onto his side and going to sleep in frustrated resignation rather than attempt to figure out why Stan was rebuffing his advancements in a given night - stressed from work, maybe coming down with a cold, and just too tired were some of his go-to excuses. Stan had even feigned a headache a few times, like some sad housewife, when the crux of the issue was that he simply didn’t want Craig to look at him, not like this.

And, certainly not when Craig used to have somebody who had hardly an ounce of fat on his body. Stan hated that he still compared himself to Tweek, even after as many years as he and Craig had been dating. In moments of heavy insecurity, which seemed to be the norm lately, he found his mind wandering there quite easily.

With a heavy exhale, he rolled over just a bit, so that he wasn’t quite on top of Craig, but close, slumping his head onto Craig’s chest. “I guess, yeah,” he mumbled.

“That’s fucking stupid.” Stan knew Craig well enough to realize that there was no ill intent behind that statement; it was simply an observation, perhaps even a validation that Stan had nothing at all to worry about. Craig, however, sighed and stroked Stan’s hair, his voice softening, as if he may have thought it harsh. “I mean, I miss it. Don’t you?”

“It’s only been, uh.” He couldn’t remember, how pathetic was that? “Um, awhile?”

“Four months and eighteen days.”

Stan lifted his head to the side, meeting Craig’s eyes. He looked a little annoyed, a little worried, but, for the most part, his gaze was full of compassion and yearning. “Really? That long?”

“Want me to count it down to the hour? I can.”

“Aw, you don’t have to do that,” Stan protested, met with an eye-roll from his partner.

“When we came back from vacation and we were both tired, so we rock-paper-scissored for who got to bottom. That was the last time.”

“Wait, really? That was forever ago.”

“Yep. You’re telling me.” Craig hadn’t stopped playing with Stan’s hair, his long fingers twining themselves in and out of his freshly-combed locks, stopping every once in a while to scratch his scalp. It had been a bit since they’d even done _this,_ since they had just laid together, close and calm, and it felt great, like Craig was ridding him of a tiny shred of insecurity with each stroke of his hand. Stan noticed that, at some point, he’d began running his foot up and down Craig’s shin, his leg hair surprisingly soft and fluffy against the sensitive skin of his sole.

“You won,” breathed Stan, “I think, right?”

Craig snorted out a laugh. “I topped.”

“Oh. I won?”

“We both did.”

A few silent, tense yet somehow content moments passed as they lay together. Stan realized that it would be an easy transition to go from cuddling to _more_ . His pelvis was already pressed against the side of Craig’s hips, his hands already on him, his head already against his chest. He could move in either direction, to take one of Craig’s nipples into his mouth, pull it between his teeth, make him moan. He could slide up a little, to Craig’s neck, and lick him in that spot behind the ear that was like a magic button to get Craig in the mood. But, he didn’t. He _couldn’t_ , even though he wished, so bad, that he fucking _would_.

He sighed. “Craig, look, I’m sorry. I just get nervous. Because, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.” Craig’s touch traveled down the back of Stan’s neck, lingering there for a moment to play with the overgrowth of hair that he should really get trimmed, before ending up on his back, stroking the space between his shoulder blades. “I don’t know why you’re nervous, honey.” There was a small hint of seduction in Craig’s voice that sent a shiver down Stan’s spine, and he really, _really_ should have taken that and run with it, but of course he didn’t, of course he said something _wrong_ and _stupid_ before he could even stop himself.

“Your, um, ex-husband,” he muttered.

Craig’s hand froze, and Stan regret saying it as soon as the words left his mouth. They didn’t talk about him, about their messy divorce, or about how Stan always carried with him a sneaking suspicion that Craig would never be over Tweek. How _could_ he be over him? Even with the way their marriage ended, despite the amount of and types of drugs Tweek did, or who he did them with, they’d been together practically forever. A part of Craig’s heart surely still belonged to the man.

Plus, didn’t help Stan’s insecurities that Tweek was, and had always been, really good-looking - not just handsome, but truly _beautiful,_ albeit in an ethereal, heroin-chic sort of way. How apt a term _that_ was for Tweek, anyway.

“Sorry,” Stan mumbled, into Craig’s chest, wrapping his arms around his torso in a tight, but brief hug, before scrambling to sit up, “Sorry, um, I just… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

“Its, uh.” Craig inhaled, sharply, through his nose. His eyes squinted shut, for but a moment, and he breathed out ragged and heavy before speaking, his voice sounding a bit forced, like he was doing everything he could to choose his words carefully and maintain his composure. “Fine. It’s fine, don’t worry. What does he have to do with it.”

“He.” Stan fiddled with the edges of the comforter that rested upon his lap, unable to quite meet Craig’s eyes. “Tweek. He doesn’t look like this _._ How can you even find me attractive? Why would you _want_ to have sex with me?”

Craig didn’t roll his eyes. He didn’t scoff or turn over or, god forbid, get up and leave. He _laughed._

“Because it’s _you._ It has nothing to do with Tweek, that was years ago, and I’m with you now,” he said.

Stan jerked his head up. Craig was smiling at him, gently. “Really?” he asked, returning the grin as best he could.

“Really.”

“Do you still-“ He contemplated finishing the question, but, by the way Craig raised his brows and the quick flash of pain in his eyes, it was obvious that he already knew what Stan was going to say.

 _Do you still love him? Do you still think about him? Am I_ _okay, am I what you want? Am I good enough for you?_

“Please don’t ask me that, babe,” Craig said, quietly, “I’m with _you_ , okay?” He reached out, again, to take Stan’s hand in his own, twining their fingers together before pulling him close yet once more. Stan’s eyes fluttered shut as Craig placed a kiss in the center of his forehead.

“I guess,” he said. Craig kissed him again, first on the cheek, and then on the lips. It was short, not quite a peck, as Craig teasingly darted his tongue against Stan’s for a second, but not a long, involved prelude to making out, or making love. Still, a small, whining moan caught itself in Stan’s throat when they pulled away. Just like that, they were adjusted to where they were before, head-to-chest in their bed.

Craig’s hand was lower yet, rubbing small, relaxing circles into the small of Stan’s back, not seeming to mind that he had a patch of sparse hair in that very spot. “I really don’t understand why it bugs you so much. Um, not Tweek,” he clarified, “Just, how you look. And I _guess_ Tweek, a little, but mostly… you know, _you_. You’re great.”

“How can you not be bothered by it?”

“I’m just not,” he stated, simply, “I always want to have sex with you. I was thinking that you didn’t want to with me.”

“Of course I want to, why wouldn’t I want that? It’s just. It’s...” He glanced down at where their bodies met. Neither had bothered to drape the blanket back on top of them, and Stan could feel himself blushing red with the knowledge that Craig was looking at him, too. “A lot of it _is_ about him, and I’m sorry that it is, it’s just that Tweek, he looked… you know. He’s...” Stan waved his hand into the air, making a vague gesture.

“Oh, come on, Tweek’s what,” sighed Craig.

“Tweek is skinny _._ He’s skinny, okay? He’s perfect, like no body hair, none of _this,”_ he gestured lower, at his body, “He’s like some, I dunno, dude, some porno twink. That’s why it bothers me.”

“Porno twink?” Craig’s chest rumbled as he emitted a low, nasal laugh.

“Yeah. He’s perfect.”

“Please, he’s…” Craig exhaled deeply, and all of the things Tweek may have been - a junkie, a fuck-up, a _cheater,_ someone who opened, then ripped apart the deceptively fragile heart of one Craig Tucker _-_ hung, unspoken, in the air. “Nobody’s perfect, especially not him.”

“I guess,” Stan said in a small voice, “Nobody’s perfect.”

The hand that was not resting upon Stan’s back was then on his jaw, tilting his face up, adjusting their angle, so they could look at each other. Craig’s lips were pursed, almost like he were trying not to laugh. “Dude, it’s not a competition. Who have I been dating for the last four years?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

His eyes crinkling in the corners as a smile began to stretch across his face, Craig stared at him, dead silent and cheeky.

“Why are you looking at me like it’s not a rhetorical question?”

Craig arched his eyebrows.

“Ugh. Fine. Me, you’re dating me,” said Stan, with a roll of his eyes.

“Right. Not Tweek,” Craig said carefully, slowly, and sarcastically, like he was explaining something to a stupid kid. Stan supposed it was warranted - he was _acting_ like a stupid kid, after all, like Wendy used to when they were in high school and the tiniest bit of cellulite on her thighs was cause for alarm and panic. Back then, though, Stan was just happy he got to see her naked, to touch her, cellulite be damned.

 _Huh,_ he wondered to himself, _Maybe that’s what Craig thinks about me._

“You. I am dating you. Tweek, um. He isn’t healthy, anyway. Never was,” continued Craig.

“I just don’t get it. I’m so… blah,” Stan said.

“You are _not_ ‘blah,’ shut the hell up.”

“I’m chubby. And hairy. I have love handles.” He pinched his side for emphasis, shaking the soft flesh of his stomach, making himself cringe and Craig snort with laughter. “And moobs.”

Craig couldn’t hold it back, then, a chortle escaping his lips. “Fucking Christ, shut up, you do not have… your chest is nice, Stan.”

“ _Moobs,_ Craig.”

“No way,” Craig protested, pecking another kiss against Stan’s temple.

“Yes way,” Stan imitated, although he couldn’t help the smile that was inching onto his face.

“I like your body. And _you_.” Craig kissed him again. “You think I never used to get insecure about how I look? I get it, trust me.”

“It isn’t the same. You’ve always been a beanpole. No offense.” Stan’s tiny smile turned into a full on grin as Craig narrowed his eyes at him.

“I know.”

“I used to look really… good, I guess? And then I kept eating like I still played football and hockey and stuff, and I never stopped _eating_ , and now I look terrible.”

Craig looked at him with an unreadable expression, something either annoyed or… aroused? How could he be… _that,_ considering everything they’d talked about, and how much Stan was whining? “Stan,” he monotoned.

“What?”

“Stop it.”

Just like that, Craig was on him, flipping their bodies near-effortlessly so that he was pinned underneath Craig, his skinny hipbones poking into the soft flesh of Stan’s as he loomed over him, hands on either side of his head. “You,” Craig said, all low and sultry, leaning down to place a kiss upon his neck, “Are so,” he deepened it, snaking out his tongue to lick a line from collarbone to ear and… yep, Stan’s underwear were _definitely_ too small. “Hot.”

And then, Craig’s mouth was on his, leading Stan in kissing hot, deep, and slow, taking his time to let their tongues slide against each other, to lazily explore every inch of each others’ mouths like it was the first time they’d ever done it. When he pulled away, Stan gasped, and Craig stared down at him glowing with awakened desire, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Stan felt like his heart was beating out of his chest and almost like he was going to faint, or be sick, with how fast that happened, with how suddenly he felt as if all of the blood in his body was rushing to his cock.

Craig must have felt that, because he chuckled, before moving his hips in a small circle and, _damn,_ he was getting there, too, his cock about half-mast in his boxers and becoming harder still. “Hot then, even hotter now, and I absolutely want to fuck you, all the time,” Craig said in a throaty whisper, right against Stan’s ear.

“Oh,” said Stan, it turning into a gasp, and then a moan - _“Ohh” -_ when Craig dragged one of his long, thin-fingered hands down his torso, and despite how awkward he felt in his own body, it felt _awesome_ , the way Craig grazed a thumb across his nipple, how he took his time with rubbing his hands on, and through the patches of hair on his chest, his stomach, and how he, so very lightly, so _teasingly,_ skimmed his fingers upon the space of skin right where the waistband of his boxers began.

“You know I used to check you out in the locker room? All the time. I loved all of _this,”_ Craig said, stabilizing himself with a hand upon Stan’s hip as he used the other one to stroke his chest hair, like he was petting him. Stan flushed at this, overcome with conflicting thoughts of _too-hairy-too-fat-don’t-touch_ and _please touch me, please fuck me, please just do something._ “Used to wonder what it’d feel like, what it’d be like to do this to you.”

Stan moaned, softly, jerking his hips up a little bit, but grimacing when he felt that his stomach led first. “Yeah but _now_ , though, I don’t have-“

Craig’s hands slid up his body, to his arms that were stupidly just hanging out on either side of him, like he didn’t know what he was doing. _That_ was dumb, why wasn’t he touching Craig? Those thoughts mattered for but a second, as Craig grasped him by the wrists, deliberately taking his hands and placing them on the cleft of his ass. Craig’s ass wasn’t big by any means - in fact, it barely stuck out at all - but it was nice, and it was Craig’s, and his cheeks fit perfectly in Stan’s hands, and Stan loved it and, holy _fuck_ Craig was so hard now. He tightened his grip, cupping him as he rocked Craig into him, against him, trying to bring them as close together as he possibly could.

“Now you look even better, and I’m so happy that I get to touch you, and _fuck_ you, and I wouldn’t want you any other way, so fucking _cut it out,”_ hissed Craig, breath hot on the side of Stan’s face. With one hand cradling the back of his neck, and the other returning to his chest, Craig pinched one of Stan’s nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Stan drew in a sharp intake of air, through his teeth, at the sensation. “I love this,” Craig said, moving his grasp to the other nipple, which he pulled. Stan couldn’t reign in his moan. “And this.” Craig splayed his palm across Stan’s chest, before stroking downwards to the thick trail of hair on his stomach. “And this, all your hair. So fucking sexy.”

“You’re super hot, dude, I, _oh.”_ Craig started to move down his body in licks, and kisses, and a nip here and there for good measure, stopping to circle his tongue around one nipple, then another. “I’m not, you’re so gorgeous - _mm,_ okay, keep doing that - and I’m not-“ Stan cut himself off with some sort of an anguished whine as he looked down and noticed how uncovered he was, hands clawing against the bedspread in a scramble for the comforter that had, sadly, fallen in a pool of fabric at the foot of their bed, far out of reach. It was too much, _too_ much, too exposed, and Stan arched his back as his head fell back onto the pillow with a moan at how much he wanted it, muffin top, and hairy butt, and looking like his father instead of someone like Tweek be damned.

Craig dipped his fingers underneath the elastic of Stan’s underpants, not low enough to make contact with his cock, but so, so close. “S-shit, Craig, please?” he asked, in a whimpering whine, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking, whether he wanted Craig to touch him, to strip him, or to stop altogether. He was sure it wasn’t that last one - he was not going to let his hatred for his body get in the way this time.

“Shh,” Craig said, nipping a kiss onto Stan’s hip, “Let me see you, yeah?” He eased one of his hands underneath Stan’s hips, guiding them upwards so he could hook his fingers into the elastic waistband and peel off his boxer briefs, and sheer want and desire, not how embarrassing it was that Craig surely noticed how ill-fitting they were, finally won out for Stan.

“I…. Yeah. Yeah, take them off, please?” he asked, just above a whisper.

“Fuck yeah I’ll take ‘em off.” Craig smiled up at him, and complied. The air of their room was pleasant and warm, there was no jarring sensation of coldness upon his newly-freed erection; although, even if there had been, it would not have mattered. Craig wasted no time in spitting on his palm before wrapping his hand around Stan’s length, circling his thumb against the head to collect the heavy droplet of precome that oozed from the tip and drag it down his shaft, using everything he could to ease the friction as he pumped him, focusing his ministrations mostly on the head, gripping Stan at the base with his other hand. Stan’s hips thrust up, uncontrollably, which only served to make Craig work harder, to jerk him faster.

“Fuck, I love this so much, _”_ Craig moaned, like stroking and looking at Stan was enough to turn him on so much that he couldn’t hold back his cries. Craig was always a dirty-talker, and even though he wasn’t particularly great at it, even though some of his phrasing was awkward and his voice remained at the same monotonous drawl as always, just the sheer idea of hearing him say those deliciously filthy things was enough for Stan. “Love your thick fuckin’ cock, so sexy.”

Stan bit his lip, holding back what would’ve been a loud, shameless cry, but instead morphed into a tiny gasp. He propped himself up on his elbows, trying to focus not on himself, but on Craig’s face, who was giving all of his attention to his cock, staring at it in rapt, aroused fascination. “Yeah? You like it?”

“Love, it, love _you,”_ Craig said, and Stan could barely hold himself back from grasping Craig by the hair at the crown of his head - _his_ hair wasn’t overgrown and curling onto his neck like Stan’s; Craig always paid careful attention to his appearance - and shoving his mouth entirely on him the very moment he flattened his tongue against the head of his cock and lapped at his head, teasing at first, then languidly licking up and down, from base to tip. Stan settled for lazily resting his palm atop Craig’s head. His hair was thinning a tad, sure, but it was still soft and full, and Stan massaged his scalp as he circled his hips against Craig’s mouth, groaning in frustration at the loss of contact when Craig pulled away, put his hand back on Stan’s cock, and shot him a devilish grin. “That good?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s really good. Wanna…” Stan reached down, grasped Craig’s wrist, and slowly guided his hand so that his fingers brushed down the shaft of his erection, stopping to cup and fondle his balls for a brief, yet wonderful, moment that made Stan gasp and quiver. Knowing how sensitive a spot that was for Stan, he was surprised that Craig did not prolong his touch there, but instead moved lower still, pressing a couple fingers against his perineum. Stan whined, spreading his legs, wanting more.

“That what you want? Want my fingers?”

“Yeah,” gasped Stan, “Fuck me with ‘em, make, oh _fuck.”_ Craig had taken the hint of Stan’s spread legs and swept a finger against the pucker of his ass, just gently stroking, massaging, but not making any move to be _inside_ of him, not yet, because Craig was a goddamn dirty tease and he knew it, knew how badly he was making Stan ache with longing and pure need.

“Want me to suck you off while I finger you, make you feel so fuckin’ good?” Craig’s mouth was on him again, this time kissing and licking everywhere _but_ his cock, of _course,_ but his fingers hadn’t moved; rather, he’d increased the pressure of his touches, kneading into the space right behind his balls. Stan missed this so, _so_ fucking much, the warm, lightning-jolt feeling in the pit of his stomach that Craig knew just how to give.

“Ah… ha, yeah, fuck.” Stan grimaced. He hadn’t anticipated doing _this._ Craig was already there, already touching him right where he wanted it, but he couldn’t help but feel ashamed about how his hair wasn’t just on his chest and stomach, but that there was a pretty decent amount of growth around, _damn it,_ his buttcrack and, _ugh,_ there was no way Craig was cool with that, was there? “I’m not… I haven’t uh, you know, groomed in awhile, I mean I’m cleaned up and everything but, heh, I haven’t, um-”

Craig lifted his head, looked Stan square in the eyes, like he was the biggest idiot in the world, and said, “Don’t really give a shit, gimme the lube. It’s in mine.”

Said lube was easy to find in Craig’s overly-organized top nightstand drawer, with dividers and everything, and Stan was thankful that he didn’t have to fish around his own bedside table for it; if he had, he probably would’ve found the half-full bottle leaking onto a stack of old receipts with a pair of broken headphones tangled around it. He hastily passed it to Craig, who popped it open with a flick of his thumb and methodically slicked his fingers before returning them to Stan’s entrance, and _finally_ taking him into his mouth in earnest.

Four months and eighteen days was a long time indeed, and it’d been even longer since Stan bottomed - four months and _twenty_ days, he quickly calculated in his head - so Craig was careful, gentle even, in working him open, continuing to rub his fingers against his hole before he even thought about sliding a finger in. It was a wonder, though, that Craig could focus on that at all, because his mouth was doing the most amazing things, and Stan certainly couldn’t think about anything other than how hot and wet it was, engulfed around his cock to the hilt, and then up again, sliding his tongue around the head, licking it like he was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

How could he have been so dumb? How could he have ever thought that this man, this surprisingly caring and kind, not to mention wonderfully fucking _sexy_ man didn’t want him? How- _“Fuck!”_ Stan gripped Craig’s hair harder, needing something to grab onto simply so he could ground himself, as Craig had timed entering him just perfectly - he slid in one digit, and, but a few seconds later, another, right as he’d taken Stan into the very back of his throat.

Stan thought he was going to lose his mind, come completely undone, when the fingers that stretched him open _curled_ . Craig was unrelenting in his touches - once he found Stan’s prostate, he didn’t let up, not for one second, making Stan moan loud enough that he surprised both of them, Craig chuckling around his dick even as he bobbed his head and it hit the back of his throat _again,_ and, even if it meant he had to look at himself, Stan _needed_ to see Craig.

Heat pooled in his belly, shooting down his thighs and into his calves and toes as soon as he opened his eyes, because, even if he couldn’t quite make everything out, it was real obvious that Craig’s free hand was stroking himself. These weren’t idle fondlings to keep up his erection; Craig was doing this with a _purpose,_ quick and hard, his hips thrusting into the bed.

“You’re touching yourself, I, mmh, I wanna see,” Stan choked out, tugging a little on Craig’s hair. He wanted _this_ to keep going, too, but _fuck_ he was getting so close already.

“Nuh uh,” Craig half-enunciated around Stan’s cock, but he still pulled himself off with a pop, staring upwards with swollen, red lips and heavy, blown pupils.

“Craig, C’mon, jack off on me, come all over me- _aw,_ really? _”_ Craig had pulled out his fingers, just enough that he wasn’t right where Stan wanted anymore.

“Nope, you first. Lemme watch you,” said Craig, voice hoarse.

 _Watch_ him? God, that… that might be a bit much, that might be a little intense and make that exposed discomfort return and make Stan squirm and… why did he want that so badly? He didn’t care, because he _would,_ he’d do it, because Craig wanted it, too. “Craig, dude, don’t… not… fuck!” He’d curled his fingers again, this time pressing, kneading even harder, and Stan, feeling lewd and cheap but not even _caring_ anymore, spread his legs further yet, shimmying his hips so that he countered each of Craig’s brushes with a motion of his own. “Oh my god, right… ah! Right there.”

 _“You_ touch yourself for me. I wanna watch you make yourself feel good.”

Tentatively wrapping his own hand around his erection, Stan slapped his palm atop his face, covering his eyes; whether it was to shield himself from looking down at his own body - because somehow _this_ was different, somehow touching himself made it so that he couldn’t feel quite as detached - or out of how overwhelmed with pleasure Craig was making him feel, he wasn’t sure. “Ugh, I’m…” He began to move his hand, knowing that at this rate it’d be over it just a few hard strokes.

“You’re fucking perfect,” whispered Craig, ”Fuck yourself on my fingers, babe, touch yourself.”

His face felt hot underneath his hand. Everywhere felt hot, too hot, too much. “I’m…. god, I’m so close.”

“Come on,” Craig gently commanded, “Let go, it’s okay, come for me.”

“Gonna, _hngh-”_ Stan was positive he was making a stupid face as he felt his eyes screw shut, his body tense, and his toes curl so hard that they made little creases in the bedsheets as his back arched off the bed and Craig pressed into him and he shook as he came, coating his stomach and his hand with the thick spurts of his orgasm.

“So goddamn hot,” Craig rasped, carefully extracting his fingers.

Stan swallowed, and opened his eyes. The room was brighter than he remembered, but Craig was propping himself up on his hands and grinning up at Stan, as if waiting for his turn. “Alright,” Stan said, with an upward jerk of his head, and Craig quickly rose to his knees, over Stan, his hand immediately returning to stroke his long, hard cock with renewed fervor.

“On you, all over you?” he said, raggedly.

“On me,” Stan affirmed, “Do it.” He placed his hand back onto the spot where Craig’s back ended and ass began, just to let him know he was _there_ , that he wanted to see this, that he _loved_ him, and it was like that simple touch was what did him in, and Craig threw his head back in a slack-jawed moan as he came, his release spattering onto Stan’s stomach.

 _“Fuck,”_ Craig moaned, trembling as the last droplets of his release dribbled from the shining, swollen tip of his cock, and he collapsed sidelong on the bed, chest heaving and forehead slick with sweat.

They lay for a few moments, until the necessity of cleanup won out over their desire to just flop down, cuddle, and sleep. Craig groaned, not in pleasure but in disgust, as Stan leaned over and reached for the fallen throw blanket, which he used to sop up what he could of the mess on his body. After a moment of irritated deliberation, Craig wiped his hands upon it, before tossing it across the room, as far away from them as possible.

“You’re washing that tomorrow,” he said, not unkindly, and arranged his pillows to their previous stack, resuming his upright position. Instead of picking up his book, he held out his arm, motioning for Stan to join him.

“That was really nice,” Stan said, cozying up next to him. Thoughts of body fat and crazy Randy and even crazier Tweek were still in the back of his mind, like they always were, but he supposed that was something that he was going to have to overcome. Whether he changed his habits, or tried to accept himself the way he was, he knew that, by some weird twist of fate, some strange trick of the universe, that Craig would be with him every step of the way.

“Mmmhm,” Craig agreed, “Really nice.” They kissed, slowly, Craig prolonging their connection with another small peck each time Stan began to pull away.

“I knew you were checking me out,” Stan chuckled once Craig finally _let_ him, “Back then. I knew it, and I always wanted to try something, and never thought I’d get the chance.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah.” It was his turn to kiss Craig on the forehead, as he’d knit his brow into something akin to worry. Stan didn’t know why _that_ would make Craig concerned, but it was still a look that he wasn’t accustomed to seeing on the other man’s face.

“You were too. You were real fucking obvious,” Craig said, tentatively, before clearing his throat. “Not gonna lie, I probably would’ve tried to kick your ass, if Tweek didn’t kill you first.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too. Same with Wendy.”

Craig pulled Stan into him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. Stan liked to think that Craig was reassuring him that this was right, that it was okay neither relationships, with either of those other people, worked, and that now, _right_ now, was what mattered. They weren’t each others’ second choices. They weren’t substitutes for those long lost. People grew up. People changed, sometimes for the better, and sometimes for the worse. Sometimes, life happened. Sometimes, things just didn’t _work_. And, sometimes, the most unlikely people would be there, with you, to help you pick up the pieces.

“Crazy, isn’t it, that we ended up here,” Craig said, softly.

“Yeah.” Stan breathed, deeply. He couldn’t deny that he was still bothered, not by Tweek, or Wendy, or the past, but by himself. “That’s why I feel like it’s disappointing. You know, _me._ Because I’ll never be that kid you were checking out in the locker room, ever again.”

Craig rubbed his back. “Stan, come on. We’re pushing forty. I don’t want some punk-ass kid, I want a man,” he stated, “Specifically, you, no matter what you look like. Hairy ass and all.”

“Even though, _objectively speaking,_ I look like my dad?”

“Oh my god. That’s not even remotely close to what I said, just…” He shook his head. “You’re fine the way you are. More than fine.”

“Yeah?” Even though Craig couldn’t see him, Stan quizzically cocked his brow.  “You don’t think I should, you know, exercise?”

“Work out if you wanna, but do it for yourself, not for me, because I’d still be with you if you were, fuck, I dunno, six hundred pounds and missing an eye, alright?” Craig buried his face in Stan’s hair, pulling him into a tight embrace, and murmured, “I love you so much. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stan said, softly, before tossing out a chuckle. “Six hundred pounds, though? Dude.”

“That was an exaggeration,” deadpanned Craig.

“You remember that TV show? It’s really sad. I felt so bad for those people.”

“You’re not-“

“You know, the spouses on that show are always really skinny.”

“Stan.” Craig laughed, fluffing the hair on Stan’s head with the snort of air that came from his nose.

“Maybe we could try eating better, though? For, you know, health reasons.”

“If you want. You’re not gonna end up on My 600 Pound Life, you idiot.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I love you too, you know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> join in on the fuckery at southparkkinkmeme dot tumblr dot com! we're always looking for new blood :D
> 
> follow me @super-craig-is-gay (main) and/or @rachhells-lair (nsfw sin pit)


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